


Mend all the Blame

by supercilious



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Angst, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercilious/pseuds/supercilious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kinkmeme fill: [Post game angst hook-up. "You were there." "...Yeah."]</p><p>Jack tries to understand his grieving process through the people who knew Cole best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mend all the Blame

It feels disrespectful, nosing around in the life of a dead man this way.

Jack isn't exactly sure what he's looking for. Maybe a little more understanding of the guy who got sent home from Okinawa all those years ago - because the man he'd met a month ago was exactly the same and completely different in so many little ways. But he already knew the answer; it was all that guilt he carried around. 'Cause he was a good man who never felt like he was good enough, got too caught up in wanting congrats and medals and the medal he finally got wasn't anything but a way to show him all his shortcomings. How he'd failed.

So _why_ does he feel like he needs to know more about Cole; about all the things he'd done and how he'd tried to better himself since he came back from the war. They weren't friends. It wasn't like Cole being dead left some hole in his life that couldn't ever get filled or paved over. But there's still this. This _need_ , like he just has to get that fully formed picture of the guy who'd died that night. Like he just needs to be...

Closer.

He'd started with Marie, coming round to offer his condolences a bit after the funeral. She'd loved Cole, loved him ever so dearly and was completely heartbroken, but... She didn't really know him. It was clear from the way she talked-- hell, it was clear from when she thought him and Jack must've been good friends. Cole wouldn't have lied about that, so he must've just never talked to her about the war. And then he never really talked to her about much of anything anymore. Broke his heart a little to know there were loads more women after the war just like her. Married to strangers and didn't even know it.

Talking to Elsa was different, she knew Cole better than anyone. She never told Jack anything particularly personal about him, but it was clear from the way she talked that he could tell her everything. She was angry, angry with everyone and everything, but the way she talked about him was wistful, a little romantic. Whether she was talking about the nights he'd come to watch her sing, or telling a joke about his driving. Even when she was ranting about what a thick-skulled idiot he was, there was never any way to get the idea that they hadn't loved eachother.

They kissed one night. He felt guilty as he was doing it and guiltier still after the fact, but he wouldn't take it back. It was deep - passionate - but there was no hint of it going anywhere beyond that moment. Just a couple of friends sharing a bit of comfort. She teasingly said she didn't know if he was trying to kiss her or Cole and he laughed and said, "I could say the same to you, princess," and wandered off to do some thinking about what he'd been trying to achieve there.

He gave it a bit of time, but eventually Jack turned to the police department to try and fill in the blanks. Lied and said he was working on a report for the DA's office so he'd have free reign to question all Cole's old partners.

Not that he really found out anything new.

They all respected him. Even Earle - the colossal waste of a badge - seemed to have some kind of begrudging respect for the guy. Even if it took all Jack had not to deck him as soon as he walked into the room for his hand in all this. Biggs talked about him like an old war buddy. Like how all of Cole's actual "war buddies" never would. All respect and admiration. Loyalty and camaraderie and a quiet desire to punch him in the face the way only a friend would. Galloway... Galloway never really got him- was quick to say as much. Never would've guessed Phelps'd have an affair or that he'd go so far off the track just to expose what was going on. Respected the hell out of the kid, but never really got him. And the way Dunn and Caldwell both talk... They fell in this weird gap, sounding a bit like Biggs and Galloway at the same time. Full of respect and admiration; considering him a friend without really knowing him at all. Striking how different this all was to the way people talked about him in the USMC.

Bekowsky, on the other hand.

The way Bekowsky talks reminds Jack of Elsa, except he hides his anger. Oh, he's angry as all get out - Cole was one of the best cops LA had seen in a long time - but he hides it behind a thin veneer of humour; joking about Cole's driving (and Jack finds himself deeply curious about how bad a driver Cole could possibly have been if people let him behind the wheel so often,) how by-the-book he was about everything and the sharp lines on his suits. The kind of jokes you only hear from good friends or bad enemies.

Jack Kelso isn't exactly the kind of guy who's often unsure of himself, but he's been a little off-kilter throughout this whole rogue investigation of his. Still, it surprises him a bit when he hears himself ask Bekowsky for a drink. "Talking about him like this, here. Doesn't exactly feel right, you know?"

Bekowsky looks sceptical for a moment, like he can tell this isn't just some routine inspection or whatever the hell excuse Jack gave to push his way in here. Jack can almost hear the detective alarms going off in Bekowsky's head, reminding him the detective isn't nearly as dumb as people make him sound, but he smiles before Jack can map an escape route in his head. Broad and friendly and he claps Jack on the shoulder with a small laugh. "Sure thing. So long as you're paying with that new salary of yours."

Neither of them really have much to say at the bar, Bekowsky fondly tells a few stories and Jack doesn't tell him any back. It's not right to speak ill of the dead, after all. They trade a few jokes about how he couldn't apologise for anything if someone had a gun to his head, about how impossibly straight-laced he was and how neither of them would've thought he had it in him to do what he did. But everything they say is punctuated by awkward silences and it's not until last orders, when they're both still sober enough to know they're too drunk to think about standing up right now, that anything meaningful gets said.

"So you were there, huh?"

"Yeah." Jack frowns, staring into the bottom of his empty glass. Contemplates saying something faux-meaningful about how Cole saved his life, but it doesn't really seem all that relevant. So everything falls back into that morose silence for a little while longer until Bekowsky speaks up again-- clearly he was the loose-lipped kind of drunk.

"I miss that boring son of a bitch."

"I think a lot of people do."

Hesitantly, for fear of falling on his face, Jack stands and begins to embark on a journey away from the bar. At least if he can get to the phone he can call himself a cab and save himself a little dignity, but he pauses on his way there. Looking back at Bekowsky, still hunched over his drink, and suddenly he finds himself thinking of the kiss with Elsa. Just a little shared grief between friends, and he thinks... He wants to be around this a little while longer. Starts to wonder if maybe he's just some asshole riding on other people's grief; grief that he has no right to have.

But then, he had no right to _any_ of what he'd done over the last few weeks anyway. Why stop now?

"Bekowsky," he raises his voice a bit, just trying to get his attention as he heads back towards the bar, "mind if I crash on your couch tonight? My place is pretty far from here and I'm in the wrong way for driving."

Bekowsky pauses in thought about that for a moment. Two moments. Three. And Jack starts to gesture not to worry about it, about to say that he has enough to call a cab before Bekowsky interjects that it's fine.

They walk back in stiff silence, Jack keeping a little bit behind Bekowsky so he doesn't take a left instead of a right and end up in some back alley looking to get mugged. The cold air does nothing but sober them up and Jack keeps his eyes on Bekowsky's back the whole time, feeling guilty and not being able to place _why_ until they get to his apartment. He's not even sure how they made the transition from entering the building to kissing in his bedroom, but now there's clothes all over the place and hands everywhere and he hates how _good_ this feels. Can't believe he's here like this with a man and wants to want to stop almost as much as he doesn't want to leave this moment.

"... Look, I--"

"--Don't talk." Bekowsky forces out, sounding unusually aggressive. Forceful. "Don't say a fucking word."

Jack can't quite tell if he's begging or giving an order.

The slight spanner in the works here is that neither of them really knew how this kind of thing goes down. They know there's holes and ways to fill them-- can't be all that different to how it worked with the dames. After a lot of fumbling and some silent arguing, Jack eventually relents to let Bekowsky do the... filling. If only because he seems to have a hell of a lot more energy left in him than Jack.

Nervously, moreso than he'd been about anything in a long time, Jack watches Bekowsky settle himself between his legs. Tries to steel himself for... What. He's got no idea how to prepare himself for this. He's sure it'll hurt but enough people seem to like this kind of thing that it couldn't be all that bad.

He was wrong about that.

The pain's blinding for a split second and it takes all Jack's got in him not to cry out, willing himself not to make any noise and he smacks Bekowsky's shoulder with an open palm instead. Waits a second and then punches him to make sure Bekowsky gets the message. He's not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but when Bekowsky gets off him and wanders out of the room, he's left feeling strangely... Exposed as he waits and tries to catch his breath.

And then Bekowsky returns with a bottle of olive oil in his hand and a joke about a broad who left it behind after she cooked him breakfast and Jack can't help but laugh at that.

"I thought you said no talking."

"That was until you socked me in the arm."

The fun is fleeting. Soon enough, Bekowsky's hovering over him again, but he's careful this time. Takes his time and keeps an eye on Jack's face to make sure he's doing okay. Enters him slowly and-- _god_ it still hurts, but this is manageable. He can deal with this. And when Bekowsky starts to work out a slow pace, it starts to become... Well. Not _too_ bad.

Even that passes soon enough, Jack's the one to force it. He doesn't want slow and gentle, like this is some romantic getaway. He wants something rough and fast. Bruises on his hips and his thighs that remind him where he was for the next week. He wants his mind blown so hard he forgets how to think

 _This is selfish,_ he starts to think to himself, about to reach down and work himself off a little faster, but he changes his mind and uses that hand to pull Bekowsky down into a kiss. All teeth and tongue and gasps and groans when he feels a hand that isn't his on his cock.

He's using Bekowsky's grief to fuel his own. Using it to feed his guilt and he's ashamed-- so fucking ashamed but he won't stop. Grips at Bekowsky and tugs on his hair, uses everything he's got to pull him in closer and deeper. For a little while it's almost like they're one person with one hurt. Like this moment is all that matters and when Jack feels himself coming all too soon, he feels more angry than sated. Almost punches Bekowsky's teeth out when he starts to stop and looks at him with an intensity that says as much.

"Keep going."

There's no pleasure in this, not that there was much in it to begin with, and Jack wraps an arm around the back of Bekowsky's neck, pulling him in close and breathing in his hair as he groans and shudders his release. They lay there, still and unmoving, running a dangerous risk of enjoying a tender moment until Jack pushes him off so he can get off the bed.

He starts to get dressed until the thought of wandering home at this time weighs on him and he sighs. "Is it still alright if I..." He gestures vaguely, feeling uncharacteristically shy about this and feels a wave of relief wash over him when Bekowsky nods.

"--Jack." Bekowsky calls out when he's almost out of the room, and Jack looks back at him curiously. Almost afraid that Bekowsky's going to ask him to stay in the bed - the idea of sleeping next to a warm body is tempting, but he can't. Not with a man. Not under these circumstances.

There's a brief silence where he imagines Bekowsky's changed his mind about what he wants to say, because he goes from looking deadly serious to smiling like he's about to laugh in the blink of an eye. "Thanks for the drinks."

Jack laughs silently, it's hard not to, and gives Bekowsky a small nod before he starts for the couch. Much too exhausted to give any thought to what transpired, he just wants to sleep it off and forget it happened.

Shouldn't be too hard.


End file.
